The fact that much he said, because of his unconscionable slang, was
incomprehensible did not take from the charm of his conversation as far
as the Duchess of Breakwater was concerned. The brightness of his
expression, his quick, clear look upon them, his beautiful young smile,
his not too frequent laugh, his "new gayness," as the duchess called his
high spirits, his supernal youth, his difference , credited him with
what nine tenths of the human race lack charm.

His tone was not too crudely western; neither did he suggest the ultra
East with which they were familiar. American women went down well enough
with them, but American men were unpopular, and when the visitor
arrived, Lady Galorey did not even announce him to the party gathered
for "the first shoot."

The others were in the armory when the ninth gun, a young chap, six feet
of him, blond as the wheat, cleanly set up and very good to look at,
came in with Lily, Duchess of Breakwater. Lady Galorey, his hostess,
greeted them.

"Oh, here you are, are you? Lord Mersey, Sir John Fairthrope." She
mumbled the rest of the names of her companions as though she did not
want them understood, then waved toward the young chap, calling him Mr... Continue reading book >>